


when did i get so pitiful

by raikkonen (armario)



Series: forget the poems of saints and ghosts [1]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Anorexia, Eating Disorders, Gen, M/M, i'm back at it again, please heed the warning, shippy i guess but very platonic, this is pure self indulgence, trigger warning de nuevo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-13 22:28:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20181742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/armario/pseuds/raikkonen
Summary: He wishes Charles fought as hard to live as he does to win a race.





	when did i get so pitiful

Seb likes Charles, how could he not? He's sweet, humble, respectful, easy to talk to.

Yet looking into his eyes for more than just a few seconds makes his skin crawl. Seb has never seen such emptiness in a person before, such an ethereal, ghostly quality. Maybe what makes it so unnerving is his youth- the kind of pain that weighs down Charles' thin shoulders should have been built up over a lifetime, not piled on all at once. 

He hides it well, laughs softly and smiles, always a little rueful, but Seb knows. He's been around long enough to notice when a smile doesn't quite reach the eyes.

"What should I do?" he asks Kimi, sighing. Both of them had noticed it; the difference between Charles and the other drivers of a similar age. The difference in maturity, in the way they carry themselves. He folds his arms and leans back against the headboard, tilts his head to regard his friend.

"I don't know," Kimi answers, helpfully honest as always, but to his credit, he stops to think about it. "Just be there, I think. Like you are already."

They had spoken about it, almost in code. Seb doesn't really know what he'd do without Kimi's steady presence, but he promised he wouldn't tell anyone else _("especially the other drivers, Seb, they see it as a weakness for me") _what exactly is going on with Charles, so he can't ask any specific advice.

Seb wants to help his teammate, take some of his pain away, but how? Is it even possible? 

He thinks Charles is an angel. A blind man could see that he has some other kind of beauty, something that would make you look twice if you passed him on the street.

He's vulnerable, and someone is going to try and take a piece of that beauty for themselves. 

"Everything okay?" Seb asks quietly, every time they meet. Usually, Charles will do that shy half-smile and nod reassuringly. 

But sometimes, he'll look away. He'll avert his gaze until Seb guides him somewhere they're supposed to talk; although talking is never what they end up doing. 

_Am I really helping here? _Seb wonders, pointedly circling his thumb and pinkie finger easily around Charles' wrist._ Is this what he needs?_

Charles says nothing. He swallows dryly and lets his eyes flutter shut, so Seb can see the shadows his eyelashes cast over his too-sharp cheekbones. He thinks about what would happen if Charles passed out due to lack of nutrients in the car at over 300km/h, helpless to stop images of an imagined aftermath flashing through his mind, Charles' tiny body thrown around like a ragdoll, unaware, because he'd already given up. 

_I don't deserve food, _he had said bitterly.

"I would like you to eat something," Seb says. Charles blinks up at him, a little surprised at the rawness of his tone. Normally, it's said in a manner designed to put the least amount of pressure on him, because even though it might be the right thing to do, Seb couldn't bear to make Charles feel guilty. Any more than he soul-destroyingly must feel already. 

"What's wrong?" Charles asks, twisting in his arms so they're face to face. It's comforting that he's so perceptive, it means they have a strong relationship, but Seb hates how it lets him avoid his earlier comment.

"I was thinking," Seb answers unhappily, "of what could happen to you."

He watches Charles fight back a fierce _I don't care what happens to me, _opening his mouth and shutting it just as quickly, teeth digging into his bottom lip. And isn't that the worst fucking thing? That even though he can't care about himself, he cares about hurting Seb. He wishes Charles fought as hard to live as he does to win a race.

Soon, they are supposed to have three stress-free weeks away from racing, competition, press, pressure. Seb knows it will be three weeks where no one tells Charles what to eat because he's not their responsibility any more, so he'll restrict until he's calling Seb at 3am, gritting his teeth through his hunger pangs, _"je ne peux pas, je ne peux pas,"_ over and over again.

What can you do? Seb had to learn. Late nights on Google letting his mind get used to forming the terrifying word Essstörung and pairing it with his kind, funny, wise, endlessly resolute teammate... articles on what to say, what not to say, writing lists of questions that he crossed out until he had worded them in the least accusing ways: _what are your safe foods? what are your fear foods? would it help if we ate together? if I ate more than you?_

*

Seb hadn't wanted to scare Charles, but there he was, like a deer in headlights. For weeks, months, Seb had been watching. Knowing something was off, being unable to put his finger on it.

It began to piece together when they were sitting filming a YouTube interview for Shell. The cameras had stopped rolling and Seb stepped away. He turned, barely thinking about it, and watched Charles stand up, then abruptly sit back down, press the heels of his hands to his eyes. 

"Are you all right?"

"'M fine," Charles mumbled. "Just went a little dizzy."

Seb had smiled at the way his accent tripped over the words, but later, he thought about it again, replayed the moment he stood, off balance. That he wasn't physically able to keep himself standing, even if it was only for a few moments till the dizziness passed.

He was thinking about an era of harsh weight restrictions, a certain unforgettable, gnawing feeling. The sensation of standing up and his vision going black because he _hadn't eaten. _How hunger became his worst enemy, but the team would praise any weight loss.

And then he compared it to how Charles always refused a proffered bite of his sandwich, (okay, hygiene, right, _but),_ he never accepted snacks, and Seb could not honestly remember the last time he had seen Charles eat anything.

_Oh, _he thought. Just one horrible idea dawning on him in the form of _oh._

Ferrari had thrown a silly little party for his 32nd, a few days early so Charles could be there too, and there was cake. A really beautiful cake that someone must have taken a long time making, that everyone was enjoying and had finished off in what seemed like minutes. 

"I saved a slice for you," Seb said. He knew he was being unfair, but Charles didn't know that yet, and he had to find out if his suspicions were true. 

"Oh, no thank you, Seb," Charles smiled. The refusal slipped so easily from his tongue that it made Seb flinch. 

"No, you have to, it's the best cake I've ever eaten."

"Really, I'm full," Charles' smile had thinned. He looked nervous, on edge.

"But it's my birthday, Charles. Please?"

He was trapped. Seb watched him pale and hesitate. In the end, he didn't want to cause a fuss or seem like an asshole, so he took the plate. 

Seb grinned encouragingly. It felt false, brittle.

Charles bit into the cake, complete with two layers of butter cream icing, and his mouth quirked in an unconvincing attempt at appreciation. "Mm. Really good."

And this was the difficult part. The part where he knew Charles wanted to throw the cake away, but couldn't, because Seb was still standing there, and he hadn't planned to eat anything so he hadn't checked where the bins were, and there were about twenty other people milling about the room who might notice him running around desperately trying to dispose of a half eaten slice of cake. So he had to force every mouthful down, wanting to cry, his stomach protesting, hating himself, hating Seb for making him do it.

"You were right," Charles said lifelessly, too quick, licking crumbs from his lips. "It was very tasty. Sorry, I just have to go to the bathroom."

Seb watched him go. He wished he was someone who knew how to handle this situation. What he ended up doing was following Charles into the bathroom, listening to him cry and sniffle and retch, repeat, until Seb couldn't stand it any more and tapped on the door. 

The noises stopped, except Charles' breath hitched on a terrified sob. 

"Hey," Seb said, aiming for soothing. "It's me. Let me in."

"No."

"Come on, Charles."

"No, I can't, I'm fine, please just leave me alone."

"I know you're trying to make yourself sick."

Seb leaned against the door to the cubicle. He could see the shadow of Charles' legs where he was curled up over the toilet. 

"Please let me in," Seb whispered. "This is my fault."

There was a pause. He heard the sound of Charles spitting into the bowl, grabbing some tissue paper and probably wiping his mouth with it. Then, the door opened. 

Charles shuffled back, hugging his knees to his chest. He looked so small, too small. 

Seb pushed the door shut behind him and sat down too. There wasn't enough room for them both, so he put an arm around Charles' shaking frame and pulled him close. 

"I am sorry I made you do that," he said, feeling honest to God evil.

Charles wiped his nose with his sleeve, wracked still with silent, hitching sobs. "Do y-y-y-y-you know how many calories are in t-that cake?"

"Do you?" Seb asked softly. 

"Around the 300," the Monégasque replied, either without considering the implications of that, or so tired of hiding that he didn't care. "And I _can't_ be sick. I can't do it. I have tried, but it does not work for me." He started to cry again, without making any noise, salty tears streaming down his face. "Why did you make me eat it."

"I wanted to know for sure," he said stupidly. "I'm sorry... I should have just asked. Would you have admitted it?"

Charles buried his face in the crooks of his spindly elbows, leaning on his knees. He couldn't answer.

"I want to help you." _Let me in, _he begs again.

His teammate had looked up at him with red-rimmed doe eyes that said _I'm lost. _Even someone who's been silently carrying his burdens for as long as Charles has needs someone to talk to. 

So it started. Seb offered Charles a hand. 

He texted him more. He brought protein snacks with him to try and tempt him with them. He asked his friends what his favourite foods were, and invited him out to eat. He didn't force anything, he accepted when Charles really said _no,_ when his lower lip trembled and he clenched his fists. He didn't object to Charles concentrating on chewing each bite fifty times, he let him spend fifteen minutes poring over the menu checking for the lowest calorie option, cut the food into miniscule pieces, didn't comment when he hid some in his napkin, didn't force him to eat more than half.

And after all this, over what felt like forever, he earned Charles' trust.

*

"If I make some rice, will you eat it? I will eat more," Seb says. He brushes his fingers through Charles' pretty, soft hair, and winces as some of it pulls free. 

"I already ate 400 today," Charles replies miserably. 

"Thousands less than you should have," Seb tells him. "The rice is 382 per pack."

He patiently waits for Charles' internal struggle to end.

"I... okay," Charles whispers, barely audible. Then, even quieter, "just for you."

That's something that Seb has not thought about too much. They've discussed it, and Seb knows he is the only person aware of Charles' disorder. Not his friends, the team, Philippe, _Giada_ (who surely must see the state of his body more than Seb ever has?)_,_ his own mother... Seb grimly thinks that will soon change, just an inconvenient fainting fit on say, a formation lap, or live in a post-race interview, <strike>or setting a fastest lap and careering into the barriers</strike> _don't think about that!_ until Charles' eating disorder is a new header in his Wikipedia article.

*

Charles slips into the happier, well-fed, charming, healthy verson of himself like you would a coat. That's what he shows to his family, his girlfriend, his friends, the paddock, the press, the fans. 

_How can no one notice?!_ Seb wants to scream. He asked, once.

"If I don't want them to notice, they won't," Charles had shrugged. 

You see, Charles doesn't want anyone to worry. He brushes off the questions, the concern, repeats _I'm fine, sto bene, je vais bien _until it loses all meaning no matter which language he frames it in. He lies until it's so easy he's lying about things he doesn't even need to lie about.

His passion for racing is real. Seb wonders how he can live like this, knowing what it will do to his career if he ends up being hospitalised.

"Racing is all I have," Charles has said. Seb dreads, utterly dreads, to imagine what would happen, what he would do, if he was forced to live without it, even for a short space of time. 

He wanted to work out- without being too invasive- what was driving Charles to starve himself. Most eating disorders are linked with body image. Seb couldn't believe someone who looked like_ that_ could ever find fault with it, but he investigated that avenue nonetheless.

"You are so handsome," he would say lightly, or some variation of, maybe with a wink, or rolling his eyes in mock jealousy.

Every time, Charles just laughed, melodic, modest as ever.

"Come on, though," Seb needled. "You must have looked in the mirror." He's not exaggerating; even from the perspective of a happily married straight male, Charles is an undisputed work of art. "Thought about modeling?" 

Charles snickered. "Of course."

"Really," Seb had caught him by the arm, a little sharp, turning him to make eye contact. "It's not... you know you are beautiful, don't you? Tell me you do. I won't think you're arrogant, I just need to know it's not..." _...because that would be stupid, _was left unsaid. 

Charles looked uncomfortable, his good mood disappeared, and he cleared his throat. "Yes, I know."

"You..."

"I know people find me attractive," he said wearily. "I... I am lucky. This-" a vague, hopeless gesture, "has nothing to do with how I look." 

Seb nodded.

"I just don't deserve food," Charles finished mirthlessly. The venom in his voice, the unfiltered self-directed hatred, had left Seb speechless.

_So it was guilt._

*

Why Charles chooses to place his trust in him of all people, he isn't sure, but he treasures it and fears it at the same time. 

He gets up to find the rice, whose calories are ingrained into his brain as a staple FIA Weight Restriction Food. He thinks he is very lucky to have escaped that mindset quickly enough, and not been as consumed with self-hatred as Charles so unthinkably is. Nor is he the only one who is or ever has been.

He empties a whole pack onto his plate, spoons half of another onto Charles' special dark-coloured, smaller plate. (He won't eat it otherwise).

He notes the tiny spoon he insists on using, the way he closes his eyes with concentration as he counts how many times he chews each mouthful.

But he finishes it. He doesn't make an excuse, push it around his plate, say he's sick or full or just not hungry. He finishes it.

Seb wants to burst into song, full of pride and affection, but he forces himself to act completely nonchalant. Acknowledging Charles ate something is apparently on par with acknowledging he is a gluttonous pig who deserves to die. He's made that mistake before, they both paid dearly for it. 

"You want to watch a movie?" Seb asks, trying not to let his happiness seep into the innocent question.

Charles nods, even though he wants escape to the gym and run on the treadmill until he blacks out, chased by a never-ending list of nutritional values.

Seb grabs a duvet and lays down on the sofa, holding his arms out for Charles to settle in to. This has become familiar; get some food into him, then hold him until he falls into fitful, malnourished sleep. If this is what he can do, he's happy to do it. If this is what Charles needs, some encouragement and a cuddle now and then, who is he to object?

_I'm so cold, Seb, _was how it had started, all those weeks ago, through chattering teeth. But he's always cold, no matter how many layers he puts on, or how tightly Seb's arms wrap around him.

_ "__Je ne te mérite pas," _he whispers, shivering. Goosebumps line his skin even though he's tucked into Seb's warm hold under a thick duvet. His sharp elbows dig into Seb's ribs, and the growling of his stomach can be heard over the movie. Seb made him leave his phone on the table, out of reach, so he couldn't go on myfitnesspal and log today's calories. 

Charles falls asleep before the movie is halfway through. He's so tired these days, energy sapped, dark circles under his eyes. He sleeps whenever he can, conserving his strength to race, all that he has left, chasing a win to make the pain trickle away like champagne down his throat.

Seb tried to take it, but Charles held onto his scale as though it was his life's blood. That was the only time they really fought. He wonders if the numbers are still going down, if that's the only thing besides racing that can make Charles smile for real.

Seb feels the Monégasque's hipbones protrude through his pyjamas, the prominent vertebrae of his spine. He has always hoped that someone else would notice, someone strong enough to bear the look of hurt, betrayal, panic; and check him into hospital. 

But they haven't.

He just hopes Charles will forgive him.

**Author's Note:**

> today we're gonna write about *spins wheel of f1 drivers* Charles Leclerc and *rolls dice of my personal issues* an eating disorder!! i do apologise


End file.
